


The Age of Aquarius

by Sandoz (Sandoz_Iscariot17)



Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, New Year's Eve, New York City, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-20
Updated: 2010-11-20
Packaged: 2017-10-13 07:11:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,544
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/134408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandoz_Iscariot17/pseuds/Sandoz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There are perks to having your own personal airship. Watching the Times Square Ball drop from high in the sky is one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Age of Aquarius

**Author's Note:**

> Watchmen is the property of Alan Moore, Dave Gibbons, and DC Comics. Originally written for newfrontiersman's 2009 Holiday Challenge.

"Take one more step, Nite Owl," Buzzbomb warned, waving the black remote control over his head and crying out with the histrionics of an old pulp fiction villain, "and the New Year will start off with a bang!"

Nite Owl might have scoffed at the cliche, if he weren't so fucking cold. The strong wind blew Nite Owl's winter cape behind him, and hundreds of feet below thousands of people were gathering in the bone-shaking, breath-fogging late December cold. Even at this height he could hear the excited rumbles of the crowd, the peppy music making 42nd Street come alive. At least some people were having fun, he thought, blissfully unaware of the madman on the roof of the New York _Gazette_ building with plans to make the Times Square Ball explode.

Contrary to the villain's wishes, Nite Owl placed one foot in front of the other. He spoke slowly, calmly, his hands where they could be seen. "You know that's not going to happen, Buzzbomb. Come on, let's take you home, you can curl up on the sofa and watch the ball drop on _Benny Anger_ tonight."

"No!" Buzzbomb yelled, sounding like a five-year-old who didn't want to go to bed. His arm began to tremble, whether from the cold or fear. Nite Owl's gaze flickered from the old man's shaking fingers to the button on the remote, big and red like a clown nose. The bright, glimmering light from the ball overhead gave the scene an almost surreal glow, like they were fighting inside a diamond. Buzzbomb backed away, oblivious to his proximity to the edge of the roof. The opening notes of “Aquarius” drifted up from the chaos below.

"This--this is my masterpiece, you can't take it away, you _can't_ , you're not even the _right_ Nite Owl--"

Nite Owl leapt. He grabbed Buzzbomb by his flared orange collar and pushed him away from the roof's edge. Panic flashed in the old man's eyes (‘til now, Nite Owl hadn't noticed just how old he was, older than Hollis, pushing 70--he felt a stab of pity) and he raised his empty fist to punch Nite Owl across his jaw (old, yeah, but _damn_ ). His collar slipped from Nite Owl's fingers and with a victorious cackle he pushed the button—

\--and nothing.

The light disappearing from his face, Buzzbomb punched the button again. Nothing happened, not the tiniest spark or fizzle. He didn’t get the chance to press it a third time, for Nite Owl was on his back, slamming him down face first on the roof and pulling his wrists back to handcuff him.

Furrowing his brow, Nite Owl reached for the fallen remote, only to discover that someone else had picked it up. He looked up and saw Rorschach examining it with a tilt of his head, inkblots shifting quizzically (they always moved slower in winter—must be the temperature).

“Hurm.”

In his other hand was a pair of simple household wire clippers.

“You diffused it?” Nite Owl asked urgently.

Rorschach’s voice, by contrast, was its usual monotone. “No bomb. No bomb at all. Merely a series of rubber tubes connected to simple, store-bought fireworks. It would seem that Buzzbomb in his derangement has confused two national holidays.”

Nite Owl eyed him.

“Sparklers,” Rorschach specified, turning to look down at the light and noise filling the street. “Party favors.”

\---

Nite Owl lowered himself into Archie’s pilot seat with a heavy sigh. His jaw still ached from Buzzbomb’s punch, a dark blue bruise blossoming like an ink stain under his lip. His fingertips touched it lightly. Unlike most of the bruises and scrapes he sustained in the line of duty, this one would be visible when he took his costume off; when he walked down the street in broad daylight, people would _know_ he got into a fight.

“So much for the party,” Nite Owl murmured at the window.

“Eh?” Rorschach asked. He was standing behind the pilot’s seat, his hand resting close to Nite Owl’s head.

“Oh, nothing,” Nite Owl said tiredly, eyes scanning the control panel as Archie weaved between skyscrapers. “I was invited to a New Year’s party hosted by the Wilson Ornithological Society, but, ah,” Nite Owl pointed to his jaw, a wry smile on his lips, “If I show up like this, they’ll think I was mugged.”

Rorschach made a low, gravelly sound that Nite Owl interpreted as disapproval. He saw Rorschach’s grip tightening on the pilot seat. Then he remembered: what little he knew of his partner’s private life, he knew enough that he probably had no similar New Years invitation. Shit.

“I wasn’t going to go,” he added. “Really, man, I’d much rather be doing this.”

Rorschach grunted, crossed his arms over his chest. “Perhaps you should have,” he said in a tone that meant just the opposite. “The night was _wasted_. We spent hours chasing a delusional madman, when we could have been apprehending _actual_ dangers to society.”

Nite Owl paused a moment, watched his partner carefully. “We got a sick old man off the streets before he could hurt himself. I don’t think that’s a waste.”

No reply from Rorschach.

“Poor Buzzbomb,” Nite Owl sighed. “I think Hooded Justice punched him one too many times in the forties…”

Still no comment. Nite Owl felt a twist in his chest; he knew his partner’s tense, brooding silences very well, though five years into their partnership he still had no better idea of how to penetrate them.

“Hey, it’s still New Year's Eve,” he said in a light voice. _Out with the old, in with the new_. “Let’s have some music.”

He flipped the radio’s dial. The cabin was immediately filled with loud, scratchy wailing: _“This is the dawning of the age of Aquarius! The age of Aquariuuuuussss----”_

Both men groaned at the same instant. Nite Owl flicked the switch violently.

“Okay, no music. No music.”

Shaking his head, Nite Owl glanced at the green glowing dials of the digital clock embedded in Archie’s control panel. 11:55.

“Hey.”

Rorschach turned at the sound of his voice, slowly uncoiled his arms.

“How about a change of scenery?”

\---

Rorschach stood in front of Nite Owl now, his hands against the window and his nose close to the glass like a kid at an aquarium. Nite Owl had flown Archie all the way back to Times Square; Rorschach had bristled at the return to the scene of Buzzbomb’s crime until he realized his partner’s intentions. On auto-pilot now, the Owlship hovered over the _Gazette_ building like a small, oval moon.

There were some perks to having your own personal airship, as Nite Owl well knew. And this one he was happy to share. He switched off the cabin lights, but instead of being swallowed in darkness the windows were filled with the neon glow of 42nd Street on New Year’s Eve—red from the giant Coca-Cola sign, purple and gold from Veidt Enterprises…the jewel in the city’s crown was undoubtedly the Times Square Ball, flashing its diamond brightness upon the Owlship and the crowds on the ground. Thousands (millions?) of people there to witness the spectacle but none of them would have the view Rorschach had right now.

“What--” Rorschach began. The inkblots of his mask moved intriguingly in the light.

“It’s okay,” Nite Owl said, sliding out of the pilot’s seat. “Just enjoy the view.” He slipped away to the back of the Owlship when Rorschach returned to the window. He opened the small icebox by the coffee machine and pulled out two bottles.

“Here,” he said gently, nudging Rorschach’s shoulder with the bottom of one of the bottles. Rorschach turned sharply and eyed Nite Owl, his chin moving up and down. The gold light of the flashing V for Veidt caught the green champagne bottle Nite Owl was holding. He couldn’t see Rorschach’s eyebrows, but he’d bet money they were arched in surprise.

“See? I told you I’d rather be here.”

Rorschach didn’t move to take the second bottle out of Nite Owl’s hand.

“I don’t drink.”

Nite Owl nodded. A knowing smile spread across his face, the purple lights making the bruise on his chin look even darker. “That would be why your bottle is Ginger Ale.”

“Ennk.”

Rorschach took it.

Nite Owl nudged him suddenly with his elbow. “It’s starting!”

The Times Square Ball made its descent. Nite Owl’s mouth moved soundlessly as he counted down, entranced—Rorschach completely silent next to him, as if he had stopped breathing—and then the ball landed, lights blazing and shimmering brighter than any explosion Buzzbomb could have set off, and Nite Owl could _feel_ the elation of the people below even if he couldn’t hear it.

Tomorrow night they’d be back on those streets, with the madmen and the muggers and whatever lowlifes the city could cough up. But for now they could relax and be above it all, together and untouched. He popped the champagne bottle’s cork and took a long, fizzy slug.

“Happy New Year,” Nite Owl said, clanking their bottles together.

A smile, a pause, and then--

“Happy New Year, Daniel.”

“To 1970!” Nite Owl cheered, clapping him gently on the shoulder. “Hope this decade’s better than the last one.”


End file.
